


Male Reader X Female Krampus

by CampGreen



Category: Krampus (2015)
Genre: F/M, Horror, Literature, fan fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 16:05:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13011315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CampGreen/pseuds/CampGreen
Summary: Merry Christmas, ladies and gentlemen. Almost exclusively gentlemen. A request from D3m0nm4n.





	1. Night Before Christmas

When you were a kid, you firmly and naively believed Scrooge was the bad guy. A greedy, nigh-irredeemable jerk who deserved every ounce of the audience and the characters' contempt. But after having to spend most of December in a stupid fucking elf costume at the shopping mall, forced to listen to the high-pitched drone of little brats 24/7, you're pretty much locked in an inescapable, surly attitude for the rest of the month, maybe even your life. Scrooge was right, fuck Christmas. Or whatever he said. Backstage- oh, excuse you, in "Santa's Toy Factory", you change into your garbs. A green Christmas cap, tunic, and elf shoes, with a pair of red and green striped stockings and cartoony blush makeup and eyeliner accenting your face. This getup invests you with an atmosphere you think well recreates that of those striped jumpsuits the Nazis forced their victims into during the Holocaust. That's about the level of disdain and humiliation you feel for your uniform right now. If this were a few days earlier, when you still had a soul, you'd splash your face in the sink in an attempt to wash away all of the negativity and put on a big happy smile before going out. But at this point, this deep into the worst Christmastide of your life, your mind doesn't even bother considering it. 

You step back outside through a curtain, where hundreds of zombies swarm the mall so engulfed in flashy Christmas decorations it's just flat-out ugly, a good chunk of them in line for some poor bastard in a cheap Santa suit. You join your fellow elves in hanging around the skyscraping, inflatable North Pole decorations and looking pretty for all the kids. Well, you yourself don't look very pretty. As a matter of fact, you try to communicate to the encircling audience as blatantly as you can without words that you couldn't be more dead inside if you tried, with eyes bruised and hollow from stress and sleep deprivation, so tired and disinterested you have to prop your head up on a stack of fake Christmas presents. All's as fine as good (as fine and good a shit part-time job like this can be) until a handful of popular kids from school roll out of the most expensive department store in the building. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, as if this day couldn't get any worse! You try to subtly retreat backstage but they notice you at the last second. As you clench your eyes shut, you thank God your face is already drenched in fake blush, because otherwise it'd be pitifully obvious you're getting a full-body sunburn from all the soul-crushing embarrassment. Here it comes...

 _"Holy shit, is that (Y/N)?"_ you hear one of them loudly whisper in disbelief. _"I didn't know he worked here."_

 _"Hey look, it's Santa's Little Faggot!"_ the alpha cracks, causing the rest to erupt into mocking laughter and girlish giggles.

 _"You a dentist yet, Spermey?"_ Funny. At least, they sure think so.

You can't even fight back, because that'd be breaking character. You'd normally give them a middle-finger or a flash of your ass, but you instead force yourself into a perky smile and wave so heavy with passive aggressiveness you can barely hold your hand up, which is a boring enough response to shoo them away with conceited smirks on their faces. You're never gonna hear the end of this after the break. All you're gonna here next semester is "(Y/N) the Misfit Elf". For the rest of your agonizing shift, which drags like a corpse through a graveyard, an indescribable hatred boils in your stomach from the encounter. The hordes of overly excited kids squealing in your ears and the sights so overwhelming and flashy it nearly gives you a seizure only adds fuel to the fire in your belly. If there was any chance of you recovering a single sliver of your soul, it's torched from existence when the mall closes at 7 and you go backstage to the changing room. 

Someone took your clothes. 

Maybe some dickhead from the popular kid gang who wanted to play a prank, maybe some retard coworker who got confused, you don't even care. In a blast of frustration, you almost break your hand punching your locker, and you sink down the dented slab of metal in tears. Thankfully, everyone's cleared out so no one's around to laugh at your breakdown, though the janitor might've heard it, it wasn't modest, after all. After you wipe your soaked face dry and recompose yourself, you have to take the bus home in your costume, almost getting hypothermia in the process. Fortunately you don't get as many weird looks as you were expecting. Kicking your stupid elf shoes off, you storm into your clapboard house, only to come home to almost 20 goddamn people just as obnoxious as the mall drones, most of them whiny little kids loudly chasing each other through the hallways. 

You exhausted so much hostility towards your job that you almost forgot your life at home isn't much better, especially during the holidays when the whole family stays over to torture you for weeks on end. God, you fucking hate kids. As a matter of fact, you just about hate everything right now. Your family, your peers, your job, Christmas, society, your life. The one thing you don't hate is your bed. Your bed doesn't squeal at the top of its lungs nonstop, or call you a faggot, or make you trudge through a borderline snowstorm in a flimsy elf outfit. All it does is cradle you with its soft, warm, quiet, nonjudgmental blankets. Your rest doesn't last for very long though, of course, as you shoot awake in the middle of the night. Your heart isn't racing, so for once it isn't stress. You look at the clock on your phone and realize it's only a few minutes till December 25th. Holy hell, you almost forgot. You've spent so much of the month rotting in angst that Christmas itself sneaked up on you. Christmas. Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, that's all you fucking hear about yet it still managed to catch you by surprise! You stumble over to the mirror and- oh, for God's sake, you almost gag at the sight of yourself in that putrid costume again. You'd shred the stupid thing off but it's below freezing outside. Freezing to death might prove a better fate than having to spend another second in these stockings and this makeup though.

You were woken up by, presumably, the bumps of your parents, aunts, and uncles as they played Santa by planting gifts and nibbling on cookies before the kids wake up a quarter day from now. You wait a few minutes for them all to go back to bed, before slipping out of your room to explore the house. Dark. Empty. Quiet. You didn't think those adjectives would ever even enter your head in regards to this godforsaken melting pot of migraines you have to live in up until now. There's not a single active light in the entire building and you're the only one not fast asleep anymore. You creep downstairs to the living room, cold of the wooden steps still piercing through your warm hoses to burn your feet with. A seven foot-tall evergreen, swirled with lights and spotted with ornaments, each more gorgeous and laden with scrupulous detail than the last, all crowned with a typically shining star and side by side a dead fireplace. The adults have already swamped its stump with a mound of presents, mostly for the kids but you still discern a few with your name scribbled onto the tags. Without the smallest ounce of guilt or hesitation, you rip into them six hours early to reveal the lamest gifts imaginable. Nothing you asked for, just bland and pragmatic "big boy" presents like clothes and hygiene products. You carelessly toss them back under the dead plant where they belong and look around for something else to do. 

The milk and cookies are long devoured out of some adult's obligation, which bums you out. You wanted to eat them first. For compensation, you instead slip your dick out from underneath your tunic and bust a quick but massive load into Santa's glass with some encouragement from the thought of a hot coworker, refilling it with some more white liquid for the old nonexistent bastard to choke on. Wonder what the adults will think about that in the morning. That'll be a great gift right there, maybe it'll make up for the garbage under the tree. The overwhelming sudden tiredness in the afterglow of the orgasm immediately stamps out any hint of remorse or disgust in yourself you ever could've had, and you pass out on the couch with your flaccid dick hanging out, energy so drained you couldn't even make it back upstairs. You're again torn from slumber only a few minutes in when all of the windows of the living room collectively fly open, unleashing a howl of winter's wind to fill the house and drop the temperature to glacial in seconds. The curtains whip like flags against the hard breeze, and a few hundred snowflakes invite themselves in. You rush over to the windows in an attempt to re-shut them, but you stop dead in your tracks once you hear shifting and shuffling come from the fireplace. 


	2. Naughty Boy

Something that sounds 200 pounds is dropped down the chimney like an elevator crashing down its shaft, and a black cloud of ash explodes out the bed of coal and charred wood from the impact, blinding you for a few seconds. The inky smoke soon evaporates, as does the blur in your eyes and the nasty tickle in your throat, and once you re-adjust your senses, you realize something's landed underneath the mantle. A vaguely feminine shadow, with not a single ash on her, rises from her crouch, revealing herself to stand only a half a foot shorter than the tree. She's a bizarre, mythical mix of a grown woman and some type of bovine, like a satyr of Roman mythology. Jagged, devilish horns stand tall and proud alongside her pointed ears and modestly cut mane. Well-honed teeth poke out from her dog-like muzzle, right below her two blackened, marble-esque eyes. Akin to the Barbie Dolls you had to hand out to charity last week, she has no genitalia to be seen, but she more than makes up for it with her tumid, dangling breasts, each tit a bit bigger than her own fucking head. Everything below her waist is thoughtlessly plucked from the animal kingdom, with bent and crooked goat legs, brick-thick and well-shined hooves for feet, and a yard-and-a-half long lion's tail swaying from behind her, but in a slow, deliberate, and ominous way, very unlike the bubbly wags of a happy dog. The beast has no skin, only blood red and maroon fur to tightly encase almost every centimeter of its outlandish, freaky structure. The shaggier bits awesomely wave in the cold wind still surging into your house through the wide-open windows.

 _"Hello, child."_ Her low, bone-chilling voice, so stern and mature it seems almost elderly on a few syllables, is swept across the living room by the gales coming in behind her from outside. _"I... am Krampus. The antithesis of Saint Nicole. Whilst she rewards the well-behaved children of the world with gifts and love, I punish the naughty ones with their own special circle of Hell. And you, (Y/N), have been a very naughty, naughty boy this year."_

You shiver and rattle from fear and the cold. It takes you a while to even form words, most of your mind is focused on trying to wake you up but it's all in vain. Either you're lucid dreaming, or all of those Christmas specials you watched as a kid skimmed over something pretty fucking important. _"T-T-T-This is a d-d-dream...you're not real! Santa isn't real either!"_ You shout as you slowly shamble backwards.

_"While I am not here to vouch for Kristine, I assure you, child, by the time the sun rises, I will be more real to you than you could ever imagine."_

Right before you can call out for help, the black leathery strap of a gag magically develops around the lower part of your face, clogging your mouth with a big red ball. You try to pry the muzzle off but through some similar witchcraft your wrists are handcuffed to your back by a pair of inexplicable prison shackles. Now all that's left are your legs, which you use to try to bolt for the stairwell with no particular goal in mind other than "Get the fuck away from the busty demon goat". You can feel Krampus's prehensile tail quickly slither around and squeeze your ankle before it rips you out of your sprint and straight to the floor, at the foot of the steps. The hard keratin sole of Krampus's hoof stomps down onto your face, burying your lower cheek into the carpet and almost popping the gag out of your mouth. 

_"Treating your loved ones and others around you with unconditional bitterness and negligence. Spoiling and being ungrateful for all the neatly wrapped and prepared surprises they poured their good intentions into. And tainting the left-overs of Kristine's well-deserved meal with your unwanted seed. You, (Y/N), are one of the biggest brats I've been dealt with. I try to be professional with my work, but I must admit, if it makes you feel any better; **I will enjoy every second of punishing your rotten little soul."**_

She takes a seat on your head, consuming it in her mammoth, velvety butt-cheeks and further burying your face into the floor. Her deep molestation of you provides for cozy protection against the December winter leaking in through the windows. She runs all eight of her gangly fingers through the pair of spheric, jiggly platforms of skin on the back of your waist, before swinging her palms up and bringing them right back down with a ferocious spank, making you jounce alongside the accompanying jolt of pain. A black, hellish stock-whip materializes in her furry palm, which she swiftly and brutally sends cracking against the smooth surface of your ass. You yelp and squeal from underneath your gag as dozens of red imprints are torn into your backside. The sting at first feels like it's painfully decaying your bubble butt, but after a while, it starts to feel more like a...really avid massage, than anything else. 

_OW!_

Ow!

Ow.

Oh.

_Oh!_

_**OH!~** _

By the time she finishes, your ass, now as red as the stripes on your stockings, smolders with a heavenly, broiling pain and if you could speak, you'd be begging for more. Krampus's beastly tongue crawls out from her snout and deviously snakes down your ass-crack, her saliva acting as an angelic burn gel for the wildfire ravaging your rear. You shudder and shiver even harder than you did out in the snow as her tongue invades your personal crevice and stuffs your rectum, washing your prostate and almost shoving you into another ejaculation. She slinks off and twists you onto your back, so your bouncing hard-on firmly peeks out from underneath your tunic. Her tongue meanders around and wraps it up like the lights on the Christmas tree that currently overwatches the two of you, and the lips of her snout smooch the pink flesh around your urethra. Your hose-masked heels dig into the carpet and grind against them as a filthy, brash hedonism swells a floor beneath your belly. 

She moves up a few stories and starts irritating your neck and rosy cheeks with her mouth, letting the tuft end of her tail take over downstairs. While your face is bossily and lecherously licked till it's glossy like plastic, your cock is swathed and driven insane by the luxuriant, warm hug of her brush. Krampus bestows upon you the greatest Christmas gift you could ask for - the number one orgasm of your life. An actual blush scorches through your makeup, your eyes almost roll into the back of your head, and even if you didn't have a gag holding it open, your drooling mouth would be agape right now, slightly curled by a big stupid grin. A cup's worth of eggnog is squeezed from your penis by the tail's merciless choke out all over you, irrevocably ruining your cheap costume with a bath of thick batter. Your manager's gonna be so mad... Detaching herself from your limp, restless body to get to her feet, er, hooves, Krampus concludes her lecture as you shiver in her lofty shadow. 

_"I hope you've learned your lesson, young child. For if you make it on Santa's naughty list come the fall of next Christmas, I'm afraid I'll have to make tonight's punishment seem like a mere slap on the wrist. Be good, boy. For your own sake..."_

As if time itself rewinds, the cinder cloud that summoned Krampus re-materializes in the heart of the living room. Krampus lets the mass swallow her, and the burst of wind caused by all of the windows slamming shut blows it right back into the fireplace from whence it came. Her bondage equipment vanishes from thin air too. The closest thing to a remaining trace of a Christmas demon ever being here is your soaked, soggy elf outfit. Shell-shocked with pleasure, you weakly crawl back into bed and spend the rest of the night absorbing whatever the hell just happened. You're not quite sure what Krampus's objective was. If her goal really was to straighten you out, she in fact did the total opposite and twisted you in ways she had no idea possible, getting you hooked to her sexual punishment like a drug addict. Maybe she's as slutty as you and was just playing a character with the whole "Be good" thing. You're not sure. You are certain, however, of what your resolution's gonna be, a full week before New Year's:

To be the naughtiest boy on the face of the planet!  



End file.
